Friend of the Devil
by Heath07
Summary: Summer looks for solace in an unexpected place. Summer and Trey.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Friend of the Devil (Title borrowed from the Counting Crows. And, um, The Grateful Dead.)

Author: Heath07

Rating: R

Summary: Summer looks for solace in an unexpected place. (Summer and Trey.)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with The O.C.

Notes: Beta by cianconnell and overnighter. Anything that you might like in this fic probably came from them. ;) My appreciation for both of them knows no bounds. They are truly amazing.

* * *

Part 1 

Everything fell apart with one phone call. That was all it took for Summer's world to come crashing down around her.

She'd just returned from a long day of shopping—two pairs of jeans, the most fabulous blouse, a cute little Cartier watch she just couldn't resist, two pairs of Manolo Blahniks and one perfect pair of Jimmy Choos later—and had barely stepped in the door when she heard the ringing of the telephone. She'd dropped her bags by the door and thrown her keys on the table, her heel catching on the frayed corner of the rug, nearly tripping her as she reached for the phone. The voice on the other end was quiet, recognizable and oddly distant—someone she knew, but couldn't quite place. It wasn't until she heard the words _"Ryan's dead"_ that it clicked in her mind she was speaking to Kirsten Cohen.

The words echoed in her head like muffled, tinny screams.

The weakness took her by surprise. It hit her in the back of the neck like a brick scraping against her bones. She touched her head. A dizzy panic coursed through her body, and then she was falling, landing hard on the ground. The phone fell out of her hand. She heard the plastic bounce off the wood floors, the sound shattering any hopes for the future. Faintly, she could still hear Kirsten's voice on the other line, calling her name, but she didn't have enough strength to pick the phone back up.

Curling into a ball, she stared out over the kitchenette floor and zeroed in on small clod of dirt and dust that had gathered under the refrigerator—she should fire the damn maid. Summer laughed harshly at her callousness. She just felt so detached.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

She must have fallen asleep sometime near midnight--the echo of the dial tone lulling her--or maybe it was later than that even. All she knew was that the sun was out and warming her back, which was a good thing, because the floor was fucking freezing and she had a cramp in her calf.

She was stiff and sore when she finally pulled herself together enough to pick up the phone, stand, hang it up and continue the eight-foot trek to her bathroom. The light was harsh and hurt her eyes—eyes rimmed red from tears she didn't remember crying, and stained black from mascara smudges.

"You look like hell," she said aloud to her reflection and -- then the tears came. They were silent and fell gracefully down her cheek. Summer wanted to smash the mirror.

Running the water, she opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a bottle of aspirin. She looked at the pills, counting them in her mind, wondering how many it would take…

No!

She slammed the cabinet closed and filled a glass with water, not even disgusted by the tap water—she had a whole fridge of Perrier, but expensive water wasn't even a priority. Not any more. And why had it been in the first place? It was so fucking stupid. Water was water. Ryan used to tell her that. Why hadn't she believed him until now?

Oh God, she felt sick. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Summer gripped her stomach and thought back to last night's conversation. Ryan was gone, that much she knew for sure. But what else? What had Kirsten said before that? Summer closed her eyes and tried to remember and when the truth hit her, she leaned forward, dry heaving beside the toilet. It wasn't just Ryan, it was Theresa, too…and the baby—no, not a baby anymore—their boy. Ryan's son. They were all dead. An accident…or something. Ryan tried to help probably, tried to be the hero…

She told him, didn't she? She told him that one day there would be something he wouldn't be able to fix and he'd get hurt. But did he listen?

Summer leaned back, slipping on the tub rim and falling into the basin, knocking her head on the soap rack as she went. Laughing and crying, she felt stickiness on her palm as she touched her head. Blood. _Good_, she thought. It served her right for being angry at Ryan for being dead.

* * *

Summer searched the faces of the people who knew Ryan the best -- faces of the people who loved him – but she held back her tears and kept her shoulders straight. It was the best she could do. Hell, it was all she could do. There was a fear brewing too close to the surface, a fear that if someone even looked at her the wrong way, she would break down and they would know. All her secrets would spill out. And she couldn't let Ryan be remembered that way. She had to preserve at least that. So she sacrificed her tears and felt the strain on her heart because she'd loved Ryan, and she owed it to him to keep it together. 

She watched the others console Marissa. Because she had once been the center of Ryan's world, it was okay for her to sob. For Summer, it was not. No one could know about her secret pain. No one could know about the agony that she felt and couldn't show. That was the punishment she deserved for being the other woman.

Three caskets. Oh God, one was so tiny -- too small to even imagine the body that would fit inside. Summer didn't want to think about it. The horror of it – the cold hard fact of that little white box strewn with flowers and a small stuffed teddy bear – drove home to her the enormity of what she'd done – what they'd done. Standing in the warm sun, surrounded by fresh air and the untenable earth, watching as people grieved, Summer felt the full impact of her actions. It ate at her. This was the kind of person she was, now -- someone who knowingly deceived people, someone who fell into bed with someone else's husband. She had become a person she couldn't stand. A homewrecker.

She turned her head and looked at the sun until spots formed over her eyes and she had to look away. Everything was black and blurry.

She didn't hear his approach, but felt his arm bump into hers. She looked up, straining to see through her spotty vision, as he slowly came into focus. She took in the wrinkled brown suit -- loose tie and disheveled hair -- and knew she was standing next to Trey Atwood, the forgotten brother.

Summer took a step to put some distance between them, but Trey just leaned in, his face so close to hers that she could see where he'd cut himself shaving that morning.

"Hey," he said, his voice gravely, and somehow older than she remembered. Of course they were both older now; it was only right he should sound different.

"Hey," she replied, keeping her eyes forward.

"Fuck, ain't that a shitty way to go? Guess the old Atwood luck finally caught up with him after all. Poor bastard."

The click of Trey's lighter broke through the muted cries of the mourners. She turned her head and watched a billow of smoke escape from the side of his mouth. As the smoke rose, the sun hit it, turning it into an ethereal glow just above his head. It looked like a halo…no, more like a crown –like he'd just won the award for being the world's biggest jackass.

"That's just so awesomely poetic," she snapped without even thinking, her voice rising. "It's amazing how you've managed to capture just the right mix of insensitivity and assholishness. It's perfect for a funeral, really. I'm surprised they didn't ask you to write the eulogy, too. I can see it all now: a bunch of dim-witted quips peppered with a few "a guy walks into a bar" jokes – or were you saving those for the reception?" Summer shook her head. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to hurl."

Trey half-turned, jerking the cigarette out of his mouth. He grabbed Summer by the upper arm and swung her around to face him. "What's your problem?"

Summer scoffed, ripping her arm out of his grasp. The anger she felt took her by surprise and filled her with courage.

"What's yours? Isn't there a liquor store you can go rob or something? There must be five between here and your trailer park – or whatever hole you crawled out from."

Trey held up his hands and tilted his head to the side, like he was trying to figure her out. Summer didn't like the way his eyes roamed down her body.

"Christ. No need to be so hostile. What? You like on the rag or something?"

"Ooh, _real_ nice. Classy. Just…shut up," she hissed, noticing for the first time that Seth was watching them.

She didn't want to cause a scene and have him come to her defense. That was the last thing she needed, and yet she couldn't help herself from being goaded into this petty infantile argument.

"I can't believe you came here after everything that happened. Do you really think Ryan would want you here?"

The scorn in her voice wasn't subtle – it was a direct invitation for Trey to leave.

Trey shrugged, noticed the cigarette he'd been neglecting and raised it to his mouth. He hesitated like he was going to speak, but took a long drag instead. And that was all it took for Summer to see a glimmer of --well, of something-- pass through his eyes.

"Ryan was my _brother_. My _blood_. I'm not about to miss his funeral. Yeah, so we didn't always get along, but we were family. He understood that. None of these people might want me here –_you_ might not want me here—but I came here to pay my respect. So I'm gonna do it. After I'm done you'll never have to see me again."

"Well, you finally got something right: no one wants you here. Ryan _believed_ in you," she said, earnestly. "He gave you a second chance; he tried to let you prove that you'd changed, and what did you do? You screwed it all up. Because that's what you are Trey, a screw-up. _Hello_! You tried to rape Marissa, and you nearly killed him. So, yeah, sure, I can see how he'd want you here. Go right ahead and keep deluding yourself, because you're the only person buying into your sob story. Boo fucking hoo."

He glowered, crossing his arms and jutting out his chin. "Best watch what you say."

Summer gave him a withering glance. His dark eyes stared into hers, almost daring…or maybe begging her to push him. He might have even looked intimidating if she gave a fuck. Instead, she turned away.

"Why, what are you going to do?" she demanded, consciously lowering her voice as she noticed a familiar face here and there cast eyes in their direction. "Rape me in front of all these people?"

Trey sighed, and flicked his ashes to the ground, visibly retreating from the anger that was so close to the surface. She could see the strain on his face, how badly he wanted to just explode –it mirrored her own state of mind. She watched him struggle for a minute, but when he finally spoke, his tone was significantly softer.

"I'm not that guy anymore. People can change. _I've_ changed. And, you really shouldn't run your mouth about things you know nothing about."

Summer rolled her eyes, and when she looked at him again she was surprised that he almost looked…hurt?

Hurt or not, Ryan's brother or not, he didn't belong. Hell, she didn't either.

Summer pushed back any feelings of sympathy that might have crept up on her. Who was she kidding? Feeling sorry for Trey was a waste of time. He sure as hell wasn't giving her feelings a second thought.

"Oh, I know all about you Trey Atwood. You shouldn't be here."

"Maybe you're right," he said, sighing. Running a heavy hand through his already tousled hair, Trey gave her a quick glance and then looked away. His face was unreadable. "But that's my kid brother being buried over there and, despite everything, I still loved him. I knew him better than anyone here. I have a right to say goodbye."

"Do you?" The words escaped before she could take them back and then, when she realized the power behind them, she didn't want to. If being angry at Ryan for dying wasn't an option then she sure as hell could be angry at Trey for just existing. It felt good to take it out on someone else. And Trey --with his cocky attitude and unkempt hair-- was the perfect target.

Instead of answering right away, he shrugged and took another deep drag from his cigarette, giving himself a moment to think about it.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

He threw down the butt and ground it into the dirt under the toe of his battered black Adidas sneaker. The image made Summer's stomach twist in a knot.

"You stink." She took a step away, and wrinkled up her nose for effect. "My God, you're drunk! Way to pay your respects, ass. What'd you do? Bathe in a bottle of Bacardi before you got here?"

"Close enough," Trey said, letting out a dry, humorless chuckle.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver flask.

"I've been hanging out with my old friend Jack. He's gotten me through some rough times in the past; you want?"

"Uh-huh. Yeah. I see _exactly_ how much you've changed. Put that away. This is a funeral, not a backyard barbeque!"

Trey lifted a shoulder and shook his head before taking a long pull.

"Suit yourself, but it takes the edge off. Go on," he coaxed, shoving the flask under her nose. "You look like you could use it."

_Fuck it_, she thought and before he could react she grabbed it from his outstretched hand. She wiped off the rim --God only knew where his mouth had been-- and took a swig.

"Satisfied?" she said, handing it back and trying not to cough.

Trey just shrugged and took another hit.

* * *

Summer didn't know what to say. Not to Kirsten or Sandy, to Marissa or even to Seth, for that matter. She just wanted to get as far away from this place and as fast as she could. Unfortunately, Seth had other ideas. 

"Summer. Hey, Summer! Wait up," he called and jogged over to her, holding his side like he'd just run a marathon. "Okay, you walk _really_ fast."

There was a wheezing noise coming from the middle of his chest and Summer wouldn't have been surprised if he'd collapsed right in front of her. Seth was never one for physical exertion. It was probably the reason the sex was so bad when they were going out—or maybe it was just that they were only seventeen. She hadn't known sex didn't have to be such a task until Ryan came along. It was a novel concept, actually _enjoying_ sex. Not that she was going to be having much sex now… And here she was again --at a fucking funeral, no less-- thinking of her own carnal needs. She was depraved.

"I think I'm okay now," Seth informed her, straightening up his lanky frame. "I, um, saw you over there. Was that Trey over there with you? Trey Atwood? Ryan's brother? Why, uh, why was he talking to you?"

"Well, yeah, but… He–we weren't…" she answered, flustered.

"Summer, c'mon, I saw you! What did he say to you? He didn't, like, upset you or anything, did he?" Seth reached for her, but Summer back away.

"He just came over and started talking to me -- wait, why am I even explaining this to you? We're not together anymore, Cohen, I don't have to tell you everything. In fact, I don't have to tell you _anything_. And even if we were -- I sure as _hell_ wouldn't let you tell me what to do or who to talk to. I'm a big girl and I can take care of myself."

Okay, so maybe that was a little too harsh, but the release she'd gotten from being angry at Trey was slowly slipping and she was starting to feel everything that she'd been trying to ignore, again. Turning her frustration on Seth was the natural progression. He'd always served as her punching bag in the past; why should things be any different now?

Seth was stunned into silence. Summer felt very proud of herself –she just had to ignore the guilt that was tugging at her heart.

"No, yeah, you're right. I-I don't know what made me think… Summer," he said, distressed. "Hey, I'm sorry, okay? I just…I worry about you."

She sighed. Seth was exhausting even when he was just trying to help. He was looking at her with big, watery brown eyes and trying so fucking hard and she'd just smacked his hand away like their history meant nothing. He had this way, this way of trying to be Everything and Anything to her, and sometimes his efforts just fell flat. Sometimes he just couldn't be what she needed him to be. There were no coffee carts or hotdog stands for him to get up on and make her melt back into his arms. No grand gestures were going to make this okay –unless Seth could bring back the dead. That was a superpower that would have come in handy right about now.

And a part of her was aware that this was hard for him, too --probably even harder than it was for her. That he was, in some respects, devastated. Ryan was the first real friend Seth had ever had. Hell, he'd moved to Portland with _Luke_, of all people, just to prove a point – that Newport wasn't the same without him. They were brothers, even if there was no real blood between them.

What made it worse was that they were friends now. It was friendship that was pushing Seth to make sure that she was okay, to see that she got home safe and that no one was hurting her. She should be grateful, but she couldn't open herself up to that kind of emotional response right now. Because that meant examining herself and all the lies she'd spun over the long haul to make sure her trysts with Ryan were covered up.

It was overwhelming and would have swallowed her up in guilt.

No. She couldn't risk it.

At this very moment, all she wanted was to get away. And by preventing her escape, Seth was getting on her last goddamned nerve.

"You don't need to, Cohen. Really."

It came out more forceful than she intended and when she looked at him, she could see how much it stung.

"I kinda can't help it," he answered softly, dropping his eyes.

"Hey," she said. Seth lifted his head. He looked so desperately young when he met her eyes again. _Great._ It was like looking into a portal of the past. She'd just stripped him of the confidence and maturity he'd slowly acquired through the years and returned him to an awkward and decidedly unsure sixteen. She felt a brief pain, so sharp she almost gasped, right beneath her diaphragm.

Summer reached out and took his hand. The warmth of his palm was comforting and familiar. "I know, Seth," she said more gently, "but try." She dropped his hand and wrapped her arms around herself.

Seth nodded, but she doubted he really understood. That had always been their problem, to the bitter end. Seth listened but never really heard her.

"Do you need a ride, you know, back to my parents'? You _are_ coming back with us, aren't you?" He sounded so hopeful. It was like kicking a puppy that had just been run over. "There's plenty of room in the limo."

There was a reception at the Cohen house. Summer couldn't even entertain the thought of going. All of those people that made up their past, shared and alone, poring over memories that were too painful and fragmented to ever capture the whole Ryan Atwood, was not something she was looking forward to. Ryan, the _real_ Ryan, was here, lying with his _real_ family.

"No, I drove here."

Seth's fidgeting was worse than normal and it was driving her insane. He couldn't seem to stand still. It was amazing how much she'd cared for him at one time and now, how close to the edge of hatred he could push her. She had to get away -- away from these people who she loved and who loved her, before she said or did something she couldn't take back.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Summer pushed Seth gently in the direction of Kirsten and Sandy.

"Your family needs you. Now go."

They needed each other now, the Cohens. They were Ryan's real family, too, in a different way, lost in their own grief. She could see them waiting for Seth, on the edge of the lawn, trying not to intrude. Sandy gave her a careful wave and then put his arm around Kirsten. For some reason that small gesture made her want to cry.

Summer waited until Seth joined his parents before she started to walk away. She had only gone a few steps when she thought she heard someone call her name. Someone had. Trey was beside her, again, lighting up another cigarette, and matching his long legs to the careful stride of her stiletto heels on the soft earth.

"Hey -- can I bum a ride?"

Of _course_ he needed a ride.

Summer looked back at Seth in the distance. He was still watching her. She turned to Trey.

"Sure," she said with a heartfelt sigh. "Why the hell not."

* * *

As she drove, Summer was careful to focus on the road, not on Trey. Occasionally, at a stop light, she would look over, but he never moved. He just stared out the window with his hands folded in his lap--an imitation of a perfect gentleman. 

There was a stain on one of his sleeves.

It was blue and hazy around the edges -- ink maybe. From the frayed cuffs, to the missing button and the way it hung off his frame, it looked like something he might have picked up at a thrift store. Trey didn't seem like a guy who had much use for a suit, and by the style and cut, Summer guessed it was from the late 'Nineties. It was probably a Goodwill special, too –the castoff of some fresh-out-of-college MBA who'd traded up from Sears menswear to runway Armani. It fit him well enough, at least, but that ink stain –combined with the tattered sneakers -- made weird things happen to Summer's stomach again.

She was suddenly struck with the image of him –only a few bucks in his pocket-- searching racks of clothes that smelled like mothballs, looking for something decent to wear to his only brother's funeral. Not even having enough left over to buy a decent pair of second-hand shoes. Suddenly, Trey seemed much less intimidating and more sympathetic –or pathetic, at least.

She hadn't even realized where they were until Trey finally spoke up.

"It's right up there, on the left. The Mermaid Inn."

"Here? Jeez. Is this like the only hotel in Newport?"

It wasn't until they pulled into the motel parking lot that Trey finally looked at her. "You should come in," he murmured, looking down and making a show of unbuckling his seat belt.

_Right._ Like she was that fucking stupid. She could read his fucking intentions from a mile away. "No, that's okay."

"You shouldn't be alone…" he started, earnestly, then changed his mind, snorted and caught her eye. "Fuck it. We're old friends now. _I _don't really feel like being alone."

"How incredibly sad for you," she snapped, then smirked, as she turned her eyes back towards the steering wheel.

She could still feel his eyes on her, and she somehow knew that he wasn't leaving until she gave him a definitive answer. Finally, she looked up and tried --and failed miserably-- to smile.

"I'm fine, really. Thanks."

"I've got more of this," he said, pulling out the flask and gripping it between his thumb and middle finger as he waved it in front of her, enticingly. Summer hesitated. "Come on, you know you want to. We're both going to hell anyway, what's it matter?"

Summer's heart began to beat very fast.

"What? What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?"

Trey just smirked, like he knew the biggest motherfucking secret there ever was. "You think I didn't know about the two of you? Adultery's a sin…or I guess it is…I mean, if you believe in all that crap."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" she insisted.

He was bluffing. There was no way he could have known. They were always so careful, so secretive. Ryan wouldn't have let it slip to anyone, let alone Trey, would he?

"Ryan Atwood, all around good guy, cheating on his precious wifey with a high-priced piece of Newport ass? And poor Theresa, at home, alone, with a baby." Trey snorted, and his smile just kept getting wider. The ass. He was obviously deriving some sort of pleasure from this.

"Fine, so it's true. You can stop grinning like a damn fool now."

He looked so goddamned smug. She would have hit him for that –to wipe that snide grin off his face-- but she just couldn't muster up the strength. It wasn't like what he said wasn't true. She _was_ a horrible person.

"She didn't make him happy."

Even to her own ears it sounded like an excuse, and more than a little pathetic. Her voice had lost the authority and the bite of just a few seconds ago, but he'd really hit her where it hurt most. She could feel the tears brimming in her eyes.

Trey leaned back in his seat and rested his head against the glass with a roll of his eyes.

"Ryan's never been happy."

"He was," she said, quietly. "When he was with me, he was."

It was the type of statement that would have made her throw up her dinner coming from anyone else. And yeah, she knew she was just driving home how pathetic she really was, but there was a need to justify it. Because if it hadn't been anything special. If it had been some cheap and tawdry affair, they were the worst of Chino and Newport combined. If none of it had been real… God, it made her like a fucking Newpsie or something.

Summer took in a long breath and smoothed her hand through her hair. When her fingers caught in a tangle, it occurred to her that she'd forgotten to brush it today. Giving Trey a quick glance, she mimicked his pose, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and pressing her face into the glass. Her skin felt too warm and the coolness of the glass was a welcome relief. She must have looked beyond glamorous. _Right_. She didn't care, though.

Not today.

They were both quiet for a few minutes, until Summer pulled herself together enough to speak again.

"He – He'd laugh and play," she started tentatively. "And I don't just mean in bed. I mean, it was more than that ---though, I'm not going to lie, there was _a lot_ of that. And he was good at it."

She surprised herself with something that resembled a soft giggle.

Summer looked to see his reaction. He'd lifted his head and was watching her. When she felt she could continue, she cleared her throat and tried that smile she'd failed to produce earlier. It still didn't work right.

"I'd never heard him laugh like that before. Did you know he could be funny? Lame, but funny."

When she laughed, it felt hollow and echoed through her head—like when people inhaled helium at parties to make themselves sound like some twisted cartoon character.

Trey nodded and his smile seemed broken, too.

"Yeah, yeah I knew that. He used to like those jokes on the back of cereal boxes when we were kids, the really stupid ones, you know?"

"Really?"

He nodded, almost eagerly.

"Yeah. He used to drive me nuts. He was always reading. Anything he could get his hands on, he'd read it. He was always so fucking smart."

His words seemed to echo in the close confines of the car. So fucking smart. So fucking young. So fucking…gone. It was like reality had breached their moment of respite calm. Summer felt her stomach heave and roll as their eyes locked for half a second before Summer had to turn away.

Trey took it as a sign, and took a deep breath to steady himself before he exited the car with a drunk's charm and off-kilter grace.

He popped his head back in, before shutting the door.

"You sure you don't want to come in?" he asked, after a moment's hesitation. With the afternoon sun behind him, blinding her, and it must have been the tiny bit of alcohol coursing through her blood stream that made her think that he almost had Ryan's crooked smile.

Summer pulled the keys out of the ignition and shoved them into her purse with a sharp click. "Maybe just for a minute."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much cianconnell and overnighter for the beta. You are both so wonderful and I appreciate your efforts greatly.

* * *

They both knew what was going to happen the moment they stepped inside the hotel room.

Summer wasn't looking to be wined and dined. No Newport Country Club special here. There would be no overpriced dinner, with caviar on crackers and champagne from crystal flutes. No candle light and no sappy music. She wasn't here to steal romantic glimpses at him, play footsie under the table and feed him divine creations made by an underpaid kitchen staff. They weren't here to play house and giggle like school children, for Christ's sake. This wasn't Ryan she was dealing with.

She had come here to get fucked, plain and simple.

And that was exactly what she expected to happen. They would not be making love. They would not be having sex. It took her a moment to accept, even mentally, how vulgar and lewd this was going to be.

Trey was going to fuck her. She was going to be fucked in all sorts of positions and on all kinds of surfaces. If she was lucky, he might even be up for a second round.

Really, she couldn't think of anyone more suited for the job. He even looked the part with his tie draped loosely around his neck, his hair a greasy mess and that goddamned crooked scowl fit to rival James Dean – a real love-'em-and-leave-'em type.

The door slammed shut behind them. Summer jumped. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears and could feel the sweat collecting on her palms.

Trey moved effortlessly around the room. He tugged on the dark curtains, struggling with the polyester plumage until they closed, blanketing the room in darkness. He flipped on the air-conditioning unit and it rattled and hummed, broadcasting its age. Next, he hit the switch to the small hula girl lamp and it flickered to life, illuminating the bed in a cheap, porn-film glow.

It was a very bad game of show and tell. And Summer just stood there, frozen, watching and waiting for the next thing he revealed.

Trey had yet to toss a look her way. It was almost as though he wasn't even aware of her presence.

Dangerous thoughts began to coil through her head. Before she could stop it, terrible things started to unfurl and spill out of her: aching pain, confusion, disgust–all mingled with desire. She was about to follow through with a horrible plan to get fucked by Trey Atwood and there were too many emotions clouding her judgment. She didn't know what to do with it all.

"This is sick," Summer muttered, looking around the cramped room. She wasn't even sure whether she meant the room itself or what they were about to do. It was more like a combination of the two drilling a hole right through her stomach.

Without really being aware of it, she began to prowl the length of the room in a restless circle.

She'd just walked herself right into a huge fucking cliché –bedding the brother of her dead lover. Now _that _was fucking poetic. Summer had gotten used to a certain level of luxury and the Mermaid Inn was as far from luxurious as things could get. Even when she slipped away with Ryan, she had never lowered herself to such shabby accommodations --that's what Daddy's credit card was for. She supposed it looked like a palace to Trey, compared to the cold, hard prison cells of the Chino State Pen, where he'd spent nearly two years of his youth –not to mention his numerous stints in juvie. There was a towel on the floor and the bed hadn't been made up from that morning. Under her foot, on the industrial-grade carpet, there an unidentifiable stain, the origin of which she did not care to ponder. Yep, it was just getting better and better.

She cleared her throat, glancing up at Trey. He was leaning against the wall, watching her as she paced. At some point, he'd disregarded the no-smoking sign propped up against the hula dancer's bejeweled belly and lit another cigarette. Suddenly, she felt completely exposed. She stopped, abruptly, mid-stride, several feet away from him.

"So, uh… It's kind of ironic," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. It was best not to touch anything –less chance of contracting some gnarly disease that way.

"What is?"

"This…being here -- in this hotel," she said, scanning the room again to avoid eye contact at all costs. "With you."

She watched, from the corner of her eye as his eyebrows creased. "Why?"

She smiled nervously, finally risking a direct glance his way.

"This is where Ryan and Theresa…" she trailed off, making what she hoped was a vague but illuminating gesture. "Well…you know."

Such a coward. She still couldn't even say it.

"Did the deed?" Trey supplied dryly. "Bumped uglies? Made the beast with two backs? Fucked like bunnies?"

So apparently there was a level beyond contempt and Trey had no qualms about reaching it. She sneered at him.

"Why do you have to be so fucking crude all the time?"

Trey narrowed his eyes at her, blowing out a steady stream of smoke without even lifting his head from where it rested against the paneled wall.

Summer felt herself blush under the cold scrutiny of his stolid stare. For the first time, she felt actual fear sluicing through her veins. Jesus. Trey could hurt her if he really wanted to. What the hell was she thinking coming into his hotel room with him?

It was too dark to interpret what his expression actually meant; whether he was angry or upset or just toying with her. She wished the stupid novelty lamp shed just a little more light, so that she could see him better.

Unconsciously, she took a step back.

"Do you believe in heaven?"

The words left her mouth before fully forming in her brain and she immediately wished she could take them back.

"Heaven?" he repeated, stepping forward and reclaiming the distance she'd put between them.

His walk was almost predatory. She was such easy prey, too. Just standing there waiting for him to pounce. When he was finally within arms length of her, he titled his head to the side and smiled from the side of his mouth.

"Nah, but Hell? Now that's a whole different story."

His eyes slipped from her face to her chest and back again. He licked his lips, which did absolutely nothing to dispel her perception of him a wild animal. Great. Now he was literally salivating at the chops.

Running was the only thing on her mind, but she knew he might follow – predators generally liked the chase.

So, she stood her ground instead.

"How can you believe in one and not the other? It doesn't make sense."

He shrugged, and took another long drag from his cigarette before he dropped the butt and ground it into the flat carpet.

How many was that today? She'd stopped counting after they left the cemetery. Was that all he did at home? Smoke and drink and look for innocent girls to fuck?

But she _wasn't_ innocent, a quiet voice said inside her.

"'It doesn't make sense."' He mimicked, in her voice, before dropping back down to his own register abruptly. "_Life_ doesn't make sense. Learn that now, princess, before you start building up your hopes. Life is nothing more than a big fucking black hole."

"I-I don't— That's not true," she answered, at a loss. She had been trying to get to something with her question, but leave it to Trey to fuck it all up and end up making her feel worse about her already dismal future. A future without Ryan.

"It's not?" he mocked, still with that same punkass smile. "Look at everything that's happened. If life made so much fucking sense, how come Ryan's dead?"

Ouch. Aim, steady and fire. Target demolished.

"Shut up. Just shut up!"

His features softened and he took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.

"Look, relax. I didn't mean anything by it. Go about wearing your rose-coloured glasses and listening to your bubblegum pop crap-ass music and just forget everything I said, okay?"

Summer searched his eyes.

"Why do you have to be like this?"

"Like what?" he asked, defensively.

The perfect words failed her.

"Like how you are."

Trey rolled his eyes. He pressed his lips together and drummed his fingers against his leg. Summer guessed that if he hadn't stubbed out that cigarette he'd be smoking it now. That was his diversionary tactic to avoid talking about anything that mattered. And with that in mind, just for a moment, she thought she saw something human in him. He couldn't be this cool and uncaring all the time. But the moment passed before she even got the chance to fully process it and the mask was back in place.

"Some of us didn't grow up in McMansions with silver spoons lodged down our throats."

He fought dirty, bringing up her overindulged childhood. But that was the thing… They really had more in common than she'd care to admit. Sure, she had money and nice things growing up –anything she could have ever asked for, really – but she'd still been abandoned and she'd still struggled, just like him. Just like Ryan. If she thought it would do any good, she'd mention that. Ryan didn't grow up in a McMansion with a silver spoon choking him –yet he turned out okay – better than okay, really. And certainly better than his brother. They'd all made their choices.

Instead, she took a deep breath and let it roll off her back. It wasn't worth the effort of even forming the words and the longer they stood here talking, the more she was losing her nerve.

"Fine, but you don't have to be so…so…" She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Just forget it."

Forgetting seemed easy for Trey when the promise of sex crackled in the air. Maybe it was for her, too. That was why she was doing this, wasn't it? To forget.

He moved in closer, close enough that she could smell the whiskey and cigarettes mingled on his breath above the faint stench of mothballs and discount carpet cleaner.

"You're not a talker, are you?" he asked, as he crowded her, his half-smile never leaving his face, yet never quite reaching his eyes. "'Cause I _really_ hate that."

Great. Now she _really_ felt trapped.

"Grow up," she snapped, but her voice was wooden and lacked any real authority. She sounded every bit as drained and undone as she felt. She took another step, but Trey shadowed her, relentless.

"Oh I'm growing, princess," he answered, his hand sliding to the front of his pants and covering his crotch. "You wanna feel?"

He flashed her that goddamned grin again. What was he, twelve? And he thought he was so fucking clever. When he reached for her, she clutched the extra fabric at the seams of her dress, refusing to uncross her arms from around her waist. There was so much potential for this to go so very, very wrong. Had it been this way with Marissa? A chill ran up her spine.

No! She wouldn't think about it. This was completely different. She _wanted_ to be here, she reminded herself.

Close to panicking now, she covered it up with a stab at sarcasm.

"Do your lame-ass lines ever actually work – you know, outside of the Alcatraz shower room? I've watched Oz. I know what happens. I know what probably happened to _you_. Look at you. Outside you can pretend to be the biggest motherfucker there ever was, but inside all they saw was a scrawny kid. Someone's bitch, that's what you were. You were what? Nineteen? It must have been pretty scary…and you must have been awfully lonely. Hell, maybe you even _liked_ it."

His nostrils flared.

_Shit._

She just had to keep laying it on thick, didn't she? Summer stared him down.

After a tense couple of seconds, he looked away. She noticed then that he hadn't bothered to move his hand from the front of his pants. Her eyes were inexplicably drawn there. She diverted them, hoping he hadn't noticed.

He had. Back was the shit-eating smile.

Finally, he shrugged.

"You're standing in my hotel room, aren't you? Besides, I've been told I'm charming." The last word held just a note of sarcasm.

"Charming isn't exactly the word _I'd_ use," she said, taking advantage of the distraction to slip just out of his reach, shifting to wrap her arms across her chest protectively. She turned her back to him with feigned indifference and pretended to be studying the crappy, out of proportion painting of the Death Valley Mountains on the wall.

"Well, my charms must have had some effect," Trey continued, seeming to take no notice of her quick retreat, "You're still here."

She glanced over her shoulder with deliberate care and let her eyes roam down his body until they landed on the bulge in the front of his pants, no longer hidden by his hand.

"This has very little to do with you and your…uh…_charms_," she stated, flatly. "Which, from the looks of it, aren't that great anyway."

"Ooh, harsh. Maybe we should put that theory to the test, huh?"

She heard the retort in her ear --a light whisper that melted away some of the apprehension coursing through her-- as Trey came up behind her and let his hands circle her waist. A shudder ran through her as he pulled her against his chest. She could feel the bulge in his pants, still there, bumping the slope of her tailbone. She closed her eyes, and the tears she'd been trying to hold in finally fell. She tried to wipe them away as fast as they came.

When the worst of the crying jag was over, she took a deep breath, and attempted to regain her voice.

"Just so we're clear," she started, then stopped, breathing deeply again. She just needed to centre her chakras before continuing. In and out, she breathed, like she'd done a million times while watching her yoga tapes. It was working. She'd calmed herself enough to go on. "Just so we're clear. This is just sex. That's all. It doesn't mean anything."

She felt him exhale against her neck, and the scratch of the stubble on his chin as he pressed his head against her shoulder, tightening his arms around her waist a little.

"I know."

Summer turned in his arms and tilted her head to look up at him. His eyes were hooded, heavy-lidded with desire and – something else.

"You know that I hate you, right?"

"I do now," he answered, smoothly, but she saw his eye twitch -- what Ryan would have called his tell. Huh. So those poker lessons really did pay off. It was gone again, as quickly as it appeared. Just the briefest flicker. But she was sure that she saw it this time. There were actual human feelings lingering underneath his cocky façade.

Anxiety made her hands shake when she tried to touch him. So instead, she slipped her hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the flask, unscrewing the cap and taking three liberal swallows. It burned going down. She imagined it would burn coming back up a little later, too.

She couldn't stand him--this, _this_ _person_, who supposedly shared the same blood as Ryan, taking up space, smelling like alcohol and sweat and sorrow. He wasn't anything like Ryan. He didn't look like Ryan, he didn't sound like Ryan and he certainly didn't feel like Ryan. He was nothing and Ryan had been everything.

Trey moved in to kiss her and she pulled back. She couldn't think of anything else but getting away.

"No. I can't," she mumbled, so softly it was like she was speaking only to the ghost of herself.

She looked up, forced herself to look at Trey—to look into his brown eyes, so deep and dark, and full of world-weary clout. She made herself actually _see_ him. _Him_, not the image he projected. His eyes were hard and dismissive, glinting dully in the dim light. There were nothing like the light blue shimmer of Ryan's eyes. Even under the layers of illusion, she still couldn't find anything that resembled Ryan's kindness or compassion.

"I can't do this," she repeated, "I really do h--"

"Hate me," he finished for her, sounding frustrated. "Yeah, I know, thanks. I got that memo."

She was a fool for being here, for putting herself in this position, for thinking that she could use him to fulfill all of her awkward desires --to fill her empty spaces-- and still emerge victorious in her pursuit.

"This is so stupid," she whispered, still mostly to herself. "Why am I even still here?"

She looked around the room, anywhere but back into Trey's dark eyes, in a vain effort to keep herself from blubbering again like some typical Newport priss.

Trey gaped at her, dazed.

"Summer..." he started, and his voice was less sure for a moment.

She was having a hard time controlling her body. It was shaking despite all her best efforts to make it stop. All the thoughts and feelings that had been coursing through her since Kirsten had delivered the news about Ryan needed a place to go. They wanted to escape any way they could.

She swiped a random tear from her cheek.

"This isn't who I am," she told him, firmly.

He tilted his head to catch her eye again.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and the fire was back in his voice. "You were sleeping with my brother. My _married_ brother."

There was that cocky grin again.

God, she hated him. She really fucking did.

"Fuck you!" she shouted, as she slapped him, reflexively.

His head snapped back and he grabbed his face. For the briefest of seconds she thought he was going to hit her back, but then she saw his eyes and there was something there. Like triumph. Like he'd just won a huge battle he'd been fighting the whole goddamn day. He looked almost smug, like he'd expected it, like he'd _wanted_ her to hit him all along.

She turned and headed for the door. This was a game to him -- just one big joke. She'd had enough.

"Have a nice life," she snarled. "No wait, on second thought…don't."

She said these things—even meant them—and grabbed her purse, but when she reached for the knob to the door, her hand fell to her side of its own accord.

Why was she still here with him in this shit-hole of a motel? Why couldn't she open the door? Why couldn't she leave? She should leave. She was going to. That would be the right thing to do. There was nothing here for her but cheap booze and useless conversation. That wouldn't make her feel better. Nothing would.

The hostility, the banter…yeah, they did make her feel something; she was always up for a little verbal foreplay –hell, she hadn't dated Cohen off and on for years for nothing -- but she was close to breaking and she couldn't be with Trey when she finally split apart. She didn't want him to see that. She didn't want anyone to see that.

And yet.

He _was _offering her something – something not quite Ryan. With Trey, she didn't have to be alone -- at least, not yet. He would leave eventually -- go back to whatever rock he'd been living under for the past few years -- and she would have to deal; have to pick up the broken pieces of herself and try to put them back together. But right now she could forget. Just for a while.

And she could still feel the pain --the pain that he had caused them all years ago-- so deep. Marissa would _so_ not forgive her if she ever found out... But she could feed off of the pain, push the hurt to the back of her brain. If she was angry, she didn't have to be anything else. Not scared or lonely. Not even sad. If she was angry, she didn't have to be torn in two. She'd rather be angry than feel any other way.

It was beyond sick. But it was what she wanted. And she wanted it so bad. It was a vile realization, but not too terribly surprising considering her state of mind.

In the few minutes she stood still in front of the door, Trey swaggered toward her, resting his hand on the door and boxing her in against the frame. His body—his warm body—was pressing into her and, despite everything, it made her ache a little.

"I shouldn't have said that; it came out wrong," he said, but he didn't look sorry and he had to have known exactly the kind of reaction he would get from her.

"Fine," she said, without looking at him.

"Stay?" he asked, and no, that couldn't be tenderness in his voice. But there was something simple and honest with the way he just asked. No bravado. No lies. Just a request.

She nodded into her chest.

"Great," he said, and patted her clumsily on the shoulder, "I'm gonna change."

"You do that," she encouraged with relief, and ducked under his arm, freeing herself once more. "I'm going to reacquaint myself with your old friend Jack."

"Sure, make yourself comfortable. There's a bottle by the mini-bar."

"That's not a mini-bar. It's a bucket of ice and a few bottles of booze."

"Yeah, well, you work with what you've got," he said as he walked into the bathroom, and for the first time she heard something – a faint echo – of his brother's dry sense of humour.

Summer was working her way toward the bottom of the bottle when Trey emerged from the bathroom, wearing only his wash-worn-thin plaid boxers. She hadn't been expecting that, and nearly choked on her last pull of whiskey. He slapped her lightly on the back and she felt the liquid finally slip down her throat.

He rested his hands on her shoulders and tilted his head to the side. "You pack a hell of a punch."

She looked up at him and noticed the red handprint on his cheek for the first time.

"You deserved it," she said, with a smile.

"Yeah, I know," he said and pulled her close, smoothing his fingers into her hair, pushing it away from her ear.

This was it.

"Hey, what'd you do to your head?"

"What?" she said, feeling her way through her hair to the spot he was thumbing. She found the wound almost scabbed over. She'd forgotten all about it.

"Oh. Ooh…I—nothing, it doesn't matter."

"It looks like it hurts," he said, moving them into the light. He traced it with his fingers and she shivered.

Summer took a step back.

"Yeah, 'cause _that's_ what hurts right now. It's just a scratch. Leave it."

Trey hesitated, but only for a minute. It was almost enough time for her to get her composure back.

But then it happened too fast. She didn't have time to think about what she was doing—to think of the consequences.

His lips were dry and he tasted like whiskey and cigarettes as he kissed her. She pulled back and stared at him, mystified.

Trey reached over to touch her face, and his fingers was warm. It startled her. She was expecting –what, she wasn't sure. Perhaps, she expected something colder…or something not quite so real.

"Hey," he said, watching her almost as carefully as she watched him. "You don't have to go through with this. Whatever point you're trying to make? It's not worth it."

Summer scoffed at what she'd half-convinced herself was empty concern. It was better if she believed there was nothing redeemable about him.

"Don't try to be someone you're not."

She wouldn't delude herself. Trey wasn't a good guy— so he wasn't a total ass, maybe, but he still wasn't one of the good guys. Not even close.

"Fair enough."

"Does _this _still hurt?" she said, lightly brushing her index finger over the small indentation in his skin where Marissa's bullet had scarred him so long ago. It was the size of a nickel, and still rough around the edges. It fascinated her.

"Yeah," he said and something happened behind his eyes – suddenly they were distant, like he had gone somewhere else, was reliving some other trauma. "Every_ fucking_ day."

"Good," she said and pushed against it until he winced and pulled her hand away. "Now, don't tell me what to do or how to feel."

There should have been anger in his eyes. But when she looked at him, his eyes reflected confusion and maybe even a little sympathy.

"Surprise, surprise. You _do_ have a soul," she said, softly.

He shook his head.

"Don't kid yourself."

In that one moment, Summer could see him so clearly. Trey had completely bought into what he'd been told his whole life. He really did believe he wasn't worth it. It might even have gotten to her, if she hadn't believed it, as well.

She knew who he was --who she was-- and even if she didn't really understand why she was doing what she was doing, she knew that it had to be.

Maybe it was punishment. Maybe if she did this, Theresa would forgive her from heaven—if there was such a place. Maybe it was what she thought she deserved –nearly anonymous sex; sex with someone she didn't really know; sex with someone she thought she despised. Maybe she could compound her sins, so that Ryan's soul would be set free, and his sins forgiven.

She wanted Trey to take the lead, but she also strived for control. She needed to control something, some aspect of her life, because everything else was spiraling out beyond her grasp.

The tears started the minute he touched her again, but she shook her head and wiped them away, even as more trailed her cheeks.

"Don't stop," she urged. "Just…don't stop."

Trey looked at her, silent. She looked back just as silent. A moment of perfect understanding passed through them.

This time when he moved in to kiss her, she was prepared and surrendered completely. It was easier the second time. No more apprehensive feelings of what it would be like, because she already knew. His lips were warm and possessive and she yielded under their pressure.

His fingers were clumsy with her dress and he struggled with the zipper. It ripped. The sound was magnified in her head—like her whole universe was being pulled apart. Summer looked down at the small tear.

She'd rushed out that morning looking for the perfect dress. Hundreds had been sifted through before she'd settled on the one she was wearing. It was perfect. So perfect, she'd had a breakdown in the fitting room, as three overbearing saleswomen tried to calm her from outside the door. She'd sat there in the perfect black dress—the kind of dress she was always on the hunt for—and mused at her own stupidity. She was going to be wearing the dress to a funeral. It didn't matter what it looked like. No one who mattered was going to see her in it.

"Sorry," he whispered, and for a moment he wasn't Ryan's brother, he was just another awkward boy. It comforted her somehow.

"S'okay," she said, and shimmed out of it, letting it puddle at her feet. She stepped out of it and walked over to the bed.

Trey followed.

He climbed onto the bed and reached for her.

Summer let him.

When he caressed her skin, moving down her body, warming her in places that were supposed to be cold and closed-off now that Ryan was gone, she felt something wrench deep inside her, and she realized, with horror, it was lust. That was when she drew the line.

"Foreplay's fine and all, but I'd really just like to get this over with."

Trey pulled back his hand.

"Right, okay," he said, resigned.

Summer sat up and undid her bra, throwing it to the floor. She pulled off her underwear and settled back down.

Trey had taken her instructions literally. He shed his boxers and reached into the night table for a condom. She felt the bed shift and some of his weight pressing against her.

Her head lolled on the pillow, as she arranged herself on the bed. She felt strange, like a novice. Trey was experienced -- much more so than she was. Probably much more than even Ryan had been, and definitely more experienced than Seth. She somehow doubted that there was anyone less experienced than Seth and his awful fish-sex moves. Trey, though, probably did unspeakable things to girls –things she would _never_ let him do to her. He probably had girls who did unspeakable things to him, too. What if he _expected_ her to do some of those things? She had a few tricks up her sleeve, but she certainly wasn't Chino-hooker savvy.

Summer took comfort in the fact that this was already happening -- it was too late to back down now. Not that she wanted to. She was committed to seeing this through.

There were, however, plenty of things she did want. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin beneath her fingers. She wanted to pull him closer, yank his head down to hers and kiss him until she couldn't breathe. She wanted to push him away, to kick him until his flesh was bruised and torn. She wanted him to be Ryan.

Her breath caught in her throat as his calloused palms cupped her breasts. It was rougher than she was used to, but still gentler than she had anticipated.

The scrape of skin on skin contact was exactly what she had been yearning for and now that it was happening, she was scared shitless.

His mouth was on her neck, up and down her skin. His fingers were playing with her nipples, and then it was his tongue. The sensations floated around inside her, threatened to overwhelm her, and yet all she could think about was Ryan.

Could he somehow see them? Did he know what they were doing? Could he feel the way she was betraying him?

It couldn't matter. She wouldn't let it.

It didn't take long before she was breathless, before she was clawing Trey's back and trying to pull him closer.

His kisses were sloppy and hard. His teeth sank into her lip and she could feel the pain slice through her. It woke her up and she just stopped resisting. She kissed him back harder, fiercely. And this time, it was his lip being bitten and the copper taste of his blood on her tongue.

"Shit," he gasped, pulling back, wiping his hand across his mouth, touching his lip to assess the damage. He chuckled, a little low sound in the back of his throat, roughened by the implication of danger.

"Violent little thing, aren't you?"

He was teasing her now and she hated that; hated the way his voice sounded a little dreamy, a little drunk –because they were.

"That's rich, considering the source."

She didn't apologize; she wasn't sorry. It scared her and thrilled her. That she could be this person, caught up in the excitement and torment of the moment.

"I can see why Ryan--"

She stiffened. Terrified and ashamed, her nails dug into his back, imprinting crescents on his pale skin.

Her words came out ragged and obscure.

"Don't. Don't say his name."

"Yeah, that was stupid. I don't--"

"Just shut up," she said and kissed him again.

She didn't want to hear any more than that. Not now. Not when she was full of hormones and grief.

She felt a change come over her, like hitting a new plateau. She dismissed the parts of herself that had been held in check by her own morality, let desire pressure her into submission.

Trey's hands were on her thighs, moving to separate her legs. They untangled easily.

She felt him there, his cock pressing against her and she knew he wasn't going to ask permission –he already knew he had it.

It was sharp and hard and fast.

Summer hadn't known what to expect. She knew it would be different. She knew it, but she wasn't quite prepared for the very real feeling of him being inside her.

He started slow at first, but that didn't last long. His cock slid in and out of her faster, the force pushing her into the bed.

It was_ so_ different. The way he fucked her, the way he took total control. It wasn't like it was with Ryan. She didn't expect it to be.

Ryan was tender and receptive to her needs, Trey was rough and selfish.

And then…

She opened her eyes and he was looking at her, so she looked right on back. He smiled. This very small, very brief, little smile, and for whatever reason she returned it.

Without further acknowledgement, he tilted her back, and, bringing her hips closer, he lifted her legs to hook her knees over his shoulders, to penetrate her deeper.

Something primal had infected her. She didn't want to acknowledge the small inklings of pleasure that were sparking through her body. She didn't want to enjoy it. There was something so terribly wrong about feeling anything other than sadness.

She held on to him tightly, ripe with arousal, but not wanting—not allowing—it to consume her.

This was empty and meaningless.

This was dirty.

This was insanity.

That was it! She'd gone insane. None of this was really happening. She was just locked up in a mental hospital somewhere and this was some strange delusion from all the drugs they'd pumped into her system.

Because a sane person would never, _ever_, give in to this kind of twisted behaviour. A sane person would not engage in an illicit sex act in some sleazy motel with the brother of her dead married boyfriend on the _day _of his funeral. With her special dress lying in a torn heap on the stained, burned carpet.

She was beyond horrible, that's what she was. She was an evil person who didn't deserve to be alive, let alone be given a moment of ecstasy. But there was nothing, absolutely _nothing_, to look forward to except for this one moment. So why shouldn't she take it? She was already going to hell. Might as well take Trey down with her. Underneath the hate and anger, there was something else brewing. It motivated her to take. Take what she never would have before.

She levered herself up close to his face, tears streaming down her cheeks, and pulled his hair so he would look at her. Once his face was aligned with hers and their eyes were even, she spoke.

"Harder," she said, bucking against him.

Her fingers dug into him as she begged. She wouldn't ever see heaven now. She wouldn't see Ryan again. If heaven existed. If Ryan was there.

Trey didn't hesitate. He didn't ask her if she was sure. And he didn't say that he couldn't because he was afraid of hurting her. He just did what he was told and didn't ask why, simply complied, fucking her harder and rougher.

No, still not hard enough.

Not enough to be punishing.

"Harder, dammit!" she hissed, pushing his body down, moving on top of him, trying to take control.

If she was going to hell, she was going out in style. She surrounded him with her small body, taking every inch of him inside until it hurt. Moving with fury and wanton abandon, she rocked her hips, saying goodbye to nice girl she used to be.

But maybe she never was that girl.

A nice girl would never have fucked someone else's husband. A nice girl wouldn't have lied to everyone she knew. A nice girl wouldn't be here, doing this, in the middle of the afternoon.

She deserved every ounce of the pain vibrating through her. She wasn't a nice girl and she would never get to feel that sweetness and love again. Not in this lifetime.

The bitterness was so strong, she could barely move and then Trey rolled them over and she didn't have to. She was grateful for that as he slammed into her, hard, in the throes of his looming orgasm.

Rage, all that rage deep inside of her, gave way, unexpectedly, to rapture as she drowned in an explosive orgasm of her own.

And then, just like that, it was all over.

Trey held her…after. Neither one of them was able to fall asleep – but they couldn't seem to talk, either. She wanted him to say something, _anything_. Words to try to comfort her…she'd even take some cocky commentary about his performance. But silence had descended upon them almost at the exact moment they separated and plunged back into reality. And as much as Summer wanted to pull away, get up and leave, she didn't have the willpower, or the energy, to do so. Instead, she took comfort in his body lying next to hers, the warmth of his skin touching her skin, and blocked out the shame, pretending things were going to be okay.

* * *

Five years ago if someone had asked Summer what her life plan was, it would not have included waking up next to Trey Atwood with a killer headache a few days after her married boyfriend had died. The sex had been strange—like she was separated from her body and watching from a distance—and Summer wondered if she'd just dreamt the whole encounter.

Then she stretched and, slipping out of bed, her feet touched solid ground. The last of her illusions were immediately destroyed. It wasn't a nightmare after all.

She felt numb -- lost in a maze of her own emotions and every time she took a step, she found herself moving in the wrong direction, further and further away from herself.

Pretending things were okay was easy, but everything was _not _okay. She'd just been fucked by her best friend's would-be rapist and she'd wanted—no, she'd demanded that he do it--that's how _not okay_ they were. She struggled for answers as she dressed, struggled to find a reason why. Why was life such a cruel bitch?

* * *

Summer stripped off her clothes and slipped into the bathtub. The faucet continued to drip. The constant noise soothed her.

Everything had been so quiet since she'd unplugged the phone –or, more accurately, threw the damn thing out the window. It took her less than a day to figure out the only way to get Trey to stop calling was to stop picking up the phone. The cell and landline phones had both been tossed. The neighbours hadn't appreciated it much, but she didn't give a fuck what anyone thought anymore.

Something inside of her had withered. Her will to live wasn't just weakened, it was gone.

She felt dead inside.

She couldn't go on like this, locked up in memories of someone who was gone and never coming back. It was killing her.

It was the little things that got to her the most. The things she remembered and the ones she forgot.

Some things she could remember in such striking detail, it almost seemed made up –like a hazy daydream. Like the way he took his coffee (black with two sugars); the oil stain on his favourite pair of jeans and how she'd sometimes trace it with her fingers; the time she caught him enjoying the ballet when she'd dragged him to see Giselle, and how he'd denied it later. Such trivial things. And oh, how she'd wasted them.

The worst part was when she remembered the look he'd get in his eyes as they'd lay in bed together, right before he dressed and went back to his home, to his family. She knew he hated it. The lies. The deceit. That he wanted it even though the guilt ate him up inside. He was ashamed that he couldn't be stronger and let her go.

She couldn't remember what his favourite cereal was. Was it Corn Pops or Cheerios? She'd debated with herself for an hour. An entire hour gobbled up in the silence of thought. And she didn't know where the scar came from just above his eyebrow, or how old he was when his dad went to jail. They were such odd things to think about --but they were a part of him, and it was important to her to remember. But she just couldn't.

How much more of him was she going to lose? Even the clearest memories would fade one day.

There was only one real option.

She'd planned this out as carefully and methodically as she could, but since she hadn't left her apartment in more than three days, her options were limited.

She'd been drunk for about that long, too. Her liquor supply had dwindled to two bottles of wine and half a bottle of Kahlua. The aspirin to help with the hangovers she woke up with –when she managed to sleep at all—was all gone now. All she could find in her medicine cabinet was a bottle of Midol. Why wasn't she more like her step-mother? Ew, even now that was a scary thought.

Still, if she was, she'd be stocked up with sleeping pills, or Percocet at the very least. Maybe even some Demerol or Vicodin. If Marissa hadn't been such a pill-whore in high school, and if she hadn't picked up and dragged her step-monster to bed after countless late-night OxyContin binges, she might have gotten the hang of pharmaceuticals. Thanks to the two closest females in her life, she'd realized their danger – and learned she didn't want any part of it.

It looked like Midol and wine would have to do.

She'd found a plastic razor in the cupboard and knew that when she finally found the strength, it would do the trick. It was certainly the least glamorous choice, but she was out of options.

One of the last bottles of wine had been sitting uncorked while she ran the bathwater. She poured herself a glassful. It calmed her nerves. But it tasted bitter and she wondered if her tears had fallen into the glass.

She'd written a note for her father, and one for Marissa. There was even one for Seth--even though he didn't deserve it and it brought back bad memories of his spontaneous trip to Portland and the year of break-up/make-up that had followed.

She was really going to do this.

* * *

The water had just come up to her chin, and she was contemplating letting her head slip down into the warmth of the water and just be done with it when she felt strong hands pulling her up and out of the tub. Summer struggled, twisting around to see who it was that dared to stop her when she was so obviously on a mission.

Trey.

Of course. She should have known.

"What the hell?" he said, his voice bouncing off the walls and striking her like a punch to the gut. "You're trying to kill yourself with a Bic razor and a bottle of Midol? That's just pathetic."

They scrabbled on the floor, as she reached for the razor, and he struggled to keep hold of her wriggling body. He held the razor above her head where she couldn't get to it and when she clawed at his arms, he threw it. It skidded across the tiles and landed in the hallway. She kicked at him and thrashed in his arms. He held her close to his chest and let her wear herself down. She offered him one last glancing blow and then she was too weighted to try to hurt him anymore. Exhausted, Summer finally gave up and went limp in his arms.

"What are you doing?" he said, and brushed her wet hair away from her face.

Summer was embarrassed. Having Trey discover her in her bathroom, about to commit suicide was awful and humiliating enough. But, being wrapped up in Trey's arms under the fluorescent bulbs, naked, made it so much worse.

She not only felt exposed, she actually was.

She barely had the will to be sarcastic, but that was their thing. That was how they communicated. She didn't know any other way to talk to him.

She certainly couldn't be honest.

"A tribute to St. Elmo's Fire. I suppose that makes you Rob Lowe. Have you come to rescue me? Well, _newsflash_, buddy… I don't _need_ to be rescued! Now, go away," she spat, as snottily as she could manage.

She didn't have to be mature about this. It was her right to make stupid pop culture references and act like a spoiled rich girl if she wanted to.

Trey chuckled, deep in the back of his throat. She could feel it vibrate out from his chest as their bodies pressed together on the cool tiles.

Christ, it was just so fucking typical. He would find something amusing about her pain.

"Demi Moore tried to freeze herself to death. And hey, who said anything about rescuing you? I'm just here to cop a feel," he informed her, with the barest hint of amusement.

There was an earthy richness to his voice and she could still feel bass wrapping around her chest long after he'd stopped speaking.

Summer shivered.

"_Right._ I don't have the patience for that. I'm pretty much freezing right now, though. Satisfied?" she asked, just as another chill ran up and down her body. "Oh, and if you even_ think_ of trying to turn this sexual, I will make sure it's impossible for you to have children. You know, that is, if you don't already have a few out there somewhere."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Well, no," he said and chuckled to himself, "actually I would, but I'm kind of fond of that part of my anatomy…"

He lifted one of his eyebrows and lowered his head, trying to catch her eye. She refused to give him the satisfaction. She knew her eyes were the only thing he didn't have the perfect view of right now. Everything else was out there on display.

"And I _know_ I'm not the only one," he said, pointedly.

He was flirting with her? Now?

The words were dirty and seemed strange after such an intense struggle. Foreign and out-of-place -- so out-of-place that they almost made her forget the situation they were in, and smile.

"Is everything about sex with you?"

"No. Not _everything_."

She wouldn't look, but she imagined he was winking, or maybe making some other obscene gesture that would just fuel her annoyance.

"Why do I bother? Now, please, just…go; I'm kind of in the middle of something here," she said, but made no attempt to move.

He sighed, gently touching the tips of her wet hair. The energy in the room transformed. Their casual attitudes seemed to slip away as the seriousness trickled in, weighing heavily on them both. She felt the change sweep over her and even felt Trey's breathing shift. Things were going to get tense now.

"You're not seventeen anymore, Summer," he said, a darker note to his voice.

Summer tried to twist around to meet his eyes, but his head was titled back against the sink and he was staring up at the ceiling.

"So?"

Dropping her hair, his hand landed on her shoulder. He was so warm.

"So, this is stupid! Just because he's dead, doesn't mean you have to torture yourself until…" he said, struggling for a minute to find the right words, "well, until you're dead, too. He wouldn't want that. And just the fact that _I'm_ here giving _you_ advice proves how fucked up this whole thing is."

She was practically thrumming with anger. How dare he? He had _no_ idea! No clue how much Ryan had meant to her and how her heart ached, each and every time, she thought of him…

How she couldn't _stop_ thinking about him.

But he was making some sort of sense and she hated that -- because, yes, she did just want to curl up and die and forget that the rest of the world existed, and it was impossible to do that with him here, planting seeds of hope.

"Don't you understand? Without him I _am_ dead. Now, let me go!"

Trey had been holding her tightly and when she asked --serious this time-- then squirmed to be released from his grip, he let her go.

Summer grabbed a towel from the floor and wrapped it around herself. She began to pace.

Trey was quiet.

She glared at him, only just noticing the purple handprint still tattooed to the side of his face. Somehow it just made him look even more self-satisfied. She knew there was some smart-ass remark fermenting in that twisted head of his.

"Then do it," he said.

With his hands free and his clothes soaking wet, he didn't look so powerful –or threatening. But his words…they still held weight.

They hadn't been what Summer expected to hear…and they certainly didn't flux with all the verbal sparring they'd been doing.

She pulled the towel tighter.

"What!"

Ignoring her, the fucker reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes, put one in his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag and exhaled through his nose. With the cigarette hanging out of his mouth and squinting through the smoke, he finally looked at her. He took another puff, pulled the cigarette from his mouth and then blew out another cloud of smoke. The bathroom was quickly filling with the potent smog.

"You want to be dead so bad? Go ahead and do it," he answered, matter-of-factly.

Summer coughed and waved away the smoke.

"That's it? You're just going to let me kill myself?" she asked, indignant.

"See, the way I figure it," he said, carefully, "if you were going to do it, you'd be dead already. I don't think you have it in you."

And didn't he just think he was so fucking smart? Like he had all the answers tucked away and pulled them out just to rub them in her face. He didn't know what he was talking about. As if she was really going to listen to the ramblings of a dumbass ex-con. Damn him!

"You don't know anything! Just leave me alone. Stop trying to be so goddamn wise, because you're not, you know. Ryan was the smart one…not you."

Trey's head rolled the side and he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he was staring straight at her and there was amusement lacing his tone once again.

"What's it they say? Heavy is the head that wears the crown…" he drawled, rolling his eyes. "Or something like that, anyway."

She got down on her hunches --elbows on her knees, head in her hands, fingers pressing into her scalp-- and started to rock back and forth.

"Why are you here anyway?" she asked, into her palm. She raised her head and tears blurred her vision. "No one invited you."

Trey snickered. "Of course no one invited me. This is a pity party for one!"

That was it. The final straw. Summer snapped.

She picked up the closest thing to her --which happened to be her half-full wine glass-- and threw it.

Her aim was horrible. She missed Trey by three feet. The glass broke and the pieces scattered everywhere. The white walls where the wine hit were painted a brilliant soapy red.

Summer felt her bottom lip begin to tremble. She was positive that if someone opened up her chest that was exactly how her heart would look – just a bunch of sharp broken shards.

_Fuck!_ She hated this. She hated everything about this.

"Just shut up! I'm so sick of your goddamn face and your sarcastic little remarks! Get out! Get out! Get out!"

He made no attempt to leave –he didn't even move one fucking muscle.

She crawled over to him, and tried to push him, but he wouldn't budge. Desperate, she took a swing at him. But Trey grabbed her flying fists --cigarette clamped securely in his mouth-- before she could do any damage and held her hands behind her back.

He held her tight, so tight that it actually stung and she felt pain. She cried out. He'd ruined the anger --that soft cushion of protection she'd constructed to keep herself safe-- and now she felt pain. She'd pushed it away too long and it was collapsing inside her. And, oh God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything she'd felt in her entire life.

He looked her straight in the eye and there was something so tragic there – something she hadn't been able to see before – it looked almost like remorse, but it was hot and angry. But, when he spoke, it fell away and he was Trey again. Callous and defiant.

"I _can't_," he murmured, releasing her with a gentle shove.

"Why not?" she said, sliding back to the floor.

All the glass strewn around the small room seemed to sparkle like the devil's eyes --almost calling to her. She thought about how easy it would be to pick up a piece and slide it across her flesh --she could already feel its deadly kiss against her wrist-- but she couldn't.

The bastard had been right; she didn't have it in her.

She began to whimper, no longer in control of her emotions. She was just so tired and so sick of fighting.

Trey shook his head and rolled the cigarette between his fingers.

"Because," he answered, distracted. Detached.

She pulled herself together to look at him – to show her extreme annoyance.

"Ooh, now I understand!" she said, throwing her hands up in the air. "No, really, thanks for clearing that one up, asshole. You get an A plus plus for elusiveness. Congrats!"

The look in his eyes was wild and fleeting.

"Because it's what Ryan would have wanted," he explained, sighing.

That was rich. Since when did he give a crap about his brother and what he wanted?

"Tell me, Trey, when was it that you got so fucking noble?" she asked, sarcastically. "So…what? He dies and all of a sudden you decide to become a saint?"

There was a crispness to her voice. She wanted answers. And Trey was going to give them to her.

Trey sucked on his cigarette, looking at her through the haze of heavy smoke. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long time --too long, Summer thought-- and then sent it hovering into the atmosphere as he exhaled.

"I'm trying to be a good brother… To do what he would have wanted."

It was classic Trey -- trying to glue things back together with scotch tape.

"Would he have wanted you to have sex with me, too?"

He smirked, flicking the last remains of his cigarette into the toilet bowl with ease. It landed dead centre, hissing as it extinguished itself.

"No, but I'm a jerk. I don't always do the right thing. I probably do the wrong thing more than I do the right," he answered, smug. "Hell, I know I do…and Ryan knew it, too."

At least he was predictable. He never apologized, and this time he didn't make excuses.

"_Nice_."

"Do you think he'd want you dead? Think about it," he suggested. "Really think about it."

Way to rain on her parade. It was cheap…or brilliant --using Ryan to make her see reason-- but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten to her. She tried to think up an answer, something ballsy that would get under his skin, but the truth had a way of leaking out anyway.

"I don't want to think anymore," she said, spitefully. "That's kind of the whole point."

"It's not always going to be like this," he said, scooting over and wrapping his arm around her awkwardly, despite her body language -- which told him, clearly, that she didn't want to be touched.

She resisted. She didn't want to rely on him. But her head felt so heavy and his shoulder was right there.

"How do you know?"

"I just do," he said, squeezing her side.

He wasn't very good at this comforting thing, but he was trying and she appreciated the effort, even if she didn't know quite how to accept it.

"Why did he have to die?"

"_That_," he said, and cleared his throat -- he'd spoken so low she could barely hear him over the melodic drip-drip of the faucet. Trey shook his head slowly. "I don't know."

Summer burrowed further into his side. She almost couldn't control the way she responded, latching onto him tight, clutching fistfuls of his shirt. She'd given up on the idea of going through this alone. She just wasn't strong enough right now.

And maybe she _didn't_ hate him as much as she thought.

"I just want it to stop hurting."

"I know. It will," he said, cradling her face and forcing her to look up at him. "It's probably going to hurt for a long time, but it'll stop. One day."

She knew Trey well enough by now to know that he was just trying to placate her. She could feel the deception like it was something tangible.

"I don't believe you."

"Good. You shouldn't. I'm a liar anyway," he admitted, halfheartedly. "I don't know what's going to happen or how you're going to feel in a week, or even a year, from now. It's like I said, life is just a big fucking black hole…You just can't let it suck you in."

"So, what do I do, oh wise one?"

Summer held her breath.

Trey tightened his hold on her and she knew that she wasn't going to like his answer.

"You move on."

-End-

"Why do you have to be like this?"  
"Like what?"  
"Like how you are."  
This exchange (albeit slightly modified) is totally stolen from My So-Called Life.


End file.
